The Sword Unbroken - SAMPLE CHAPTERS

Chapter Two: Calm Before the Storm

Joints stiff and swollen, extremities numb, his whole body trembling with cold and dripping wet, Imalroc was ready to snap bones. These new masters of his were trying to break him in, just like all the others had. Trying to weaken him and make him pliant. By drowning him in rainwater, apparently.

He coughed against the slick wooden floor slats of the cage, cursing through chattering teeth. It was almost nightfall, and although the rain had eased, it did him little good. He was already soaked.

The long evening spent shackled in a cage had given him too much time to think. He had been close, so very fucking close, to getting out of battleboxing forever. Wester had been furious, ready to sell him off to the first person who asked. He could have been working in a field somewhere, or chipping away at an onyx mine. Any of it would have been better than battleboxing. Even the lowliest worker had a contract they could choose to break. Battleboxing was the last form of slavery left in this cursed country.

He blinked rapidly to clear the water from his eyes and stared up at the house for the thousandth time. In twilight it was a hulking shadow, with not a single candle winking from its dark depths. No one had come out or gone in since Lady Toriem had paid Rago his fee. From behind one severe corner, he could seek the peeking outline of another building, but it offered no clues. Compared to the constant bustle of Duke Wester's enormous estate, this place felt deserted.

Footsteps slapping toward his cage diverted his attention from the brooding house. He twisted his face toward the sound, wincing at the ache in his cramped neck. A tall figure moved steadily closer – the same green-cloaked man from earlier. As the man approached, he swept back his cloak to locate a key.

Imalroc's gaze tore over him, searching for weapons. He spotted the bleached white flash of what looked like a dagger hilt, but beyond that, nothing. And no servants or guards. This man was either very confident or very stupid to approach him alone. Then again, he wasn't at his most intimidating, lying in a slick, wet bundle of chains.

His last vestiges of energy pumped through him as the man drew near. Anxiety twisted like a living thing in his chest, and his skin itched everywhere that cold metal touched him. First-time handlers were notoriously violent and enthusiastically so. A chill crawled through him.

Panic would do him no favors. Imalroc stared at the bottom of the cage. He envisioned shackling the Duke of Wester in his place and setting the cage on fire. The thought wasn't nearly as satisfying as it normally was. He had a new enemy now.

The green-cloaked man stepped up beside the cage and stood over him. "All right," he said. He coughed, and when he spoke again it almost sounded as though he were trying to deepen his voice. "Imalroc. I am your handler, Rerdas Toriem. You're to do exactly as I say at all times. Understood?"

Imalroc was silent for a few heartbeats. He contemplated cursing the handler from here to Drida, but bit it back. Not the moment for defiance. "Perfectly, Master Toriem," he managed. The words stung his hoarse throat.

"Good. I'm going to blindfold you, and then the...ah...the servants and I will take you to where you're to be stabled. Any resistance, the slightest wrong move, and I'll put you right back out here for the night."

The handler seemed to be waiting for him to say something. Imalroc did not give him the satisfaction of a response. He might not be fighting back yet, but he wasn't going to fucking grovel either.

"Here we go, then," the handler muttered.

Imalroc breathed steadily. Listened to the key click into place and the bolts of the door wrench back. The thud of footsteps, just beside his knees. A thick, scratchy fabric was placed over his eyes and knotted tightly at the back of his head.